Footprints on the Shore of Ôkeanos
by Aeanagwen
Summary: We all belong to someone at one point or another. Or, seven times Waver Velvet passed through the realms of the Endless (and one time he came to stay). Crossover with Neil Gaiman's The Sandman; seven drabbles and a bonus. UPDATE: Now with a chapter of Rider drabbles, focused more on his relationships with his relationships with his followers than encounters with the Endless.
1. Chapter 1 - Waver

**Footprints on the Shore of Ôkeanos**

_We all belong to someone at one point or another. Or, seven times Waver Velvet passed through the realms of the Endless (and one time he came to stay). Crossover with Neil Gaiman's The Sandman; seven drabbles and a bonus. Inspired by a friend's_ _idea that the reality-space locale for Ionioi Hetairoi is in The Dreaming._

* * *

_.1._

He slams the door shut, but can still hear the laughter. Every word of his grandmother's warnings returns to him, and there's nowhere to turn to drown them out. His dorm room is barren of comforts-no talismans of his mother's confidence in him remain, no familiar things with which to center himself. Jaw rigid, he sags into his desk chair and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes to the point of pain. He knows if he looks in the mirror, the boy he sees will break him, and he needs, needs, _needs_ this anger to last.

_.2._

He's alight with it, on _fire_ with the surety. Research is limited, but anecdotal and mythical evidence is staggering: there are ways to increase one's power. Certainly circuit count isn't everything-just reading through dueling accounts would prove that! Even the first draft is the best thing he's ever written. He's leaving the library, finished thesis in hand and daydreaming about Kayneth's reaction, when he runs into the woman outside. She smiles at his stammered apologies, lips a perfect pink bow, and he thinks as he leaves that such a perfect smile can only be a sign of what's to come.

_.3._

The terrible stench of it all makes his head spin wildly, but it's impossible to look away; the inferno casts pitiless light into every corner of Caster's lair, and it is madness, every inch. Flayed skin and stretched intestines and peeled fingernails and intricately broken bones and there's a pattern, a pattern, a pattern lying just out of reach, and he tells himself he won't have _nightmares_ of searching for it and knows it's a lie. A glassy gleam from amidst the flames, blue and green, mismatched eyes and a too-soft frown. Waver shudders and presses closer against his Servant.

_.4._

The smell of paper-older, stronger than any musty tome he's ever touched-tells him it's a dream. Behind him, someone turns a page with an iron clink. But Rider is before him and his vow is tumbling past his lips; even in a dream, he dares not look away. Not from Alexander's last charge, nor the great, vast dawning of Gate of Babylon, nor Archer's measured tread towards him. Not until it's over can he turn, but the hooded figure is already fading, and with him the hedgemaze in which he stands, all its winding pathways shrouded in mist.

_.5._

He sees the man in Greece, laughing boisterously at sidewalk art, and it nearly knocks him over, blindsided by the force of jumbled, chaotic memory. Caster's lair, collapsing in flames. Racing Saber in Gordius Wheel, leaving torn and ruined road behind them. The monstrous roar of Mount Enzou going up like a volcano, he and Rin ensconced in Volumen Hydragyrum. Alexander, delighting in war. The destruction Waver brought down in his memory. The man looks at him, the tears on his cheeks, in concern. He asks if Waver's all right, and the mage can find no honest way to answer.

_.6._

"That's it?"

"That's it." Her smile crinkles the corners of eyes that are as liquid-dark as his mother's fountain ink, which had, half a century ago, seemed to him the secret to all knowledge. It's an odd thought, one he contemplates while evaluating his body.

"Not too bad. I always figured I'd never make it past forty."

"It was a good run," she says equitably.

"So now what? Off to the great hereafter?"

She laughs. "Not quite. Do you remember swearing an oath when you were nineteen, Waver?"

If he'd still had a heartbeat, he's sure it would have stopped.

_.7._

"He doesn't know? Why not?"

Dream, though unsmiling, sounds faintly amused. "A moment's reflection on his history will answer that. Nonetheless, he will be expecting you."

Waver's heartbeat has returned, a fleet drumming he strives to quell, nodding and forcing his gaze up and forward. It would be _unthinkable_ to falter now.

"Can I thank you, for-all this, in his stead? He claimed to be Zeus' son; I'm sure-"

"Your Alexander only failed to conquer the heavens for want of a gate. Thank me for your own sake if you will, but not his."

With that, Morpheus is gone

_.oo._

and Waver is ankle-deep in surf. There are soldiers all around him, embracing like long-separated brothers, and ahead-

_...Rider...!_

Swinging a laughing woman back down to her feet, Alexander turns, spots Waver, and stills, staring. His grin fades with puzzlement, then intrigue begins to nudge it again across his face. He presses a kiss to the woman's temple and releases her, striding over as men in the army turn curiously to follow their king's stare.

Waver stand motionless and breathless, thoughts and memories flashing wildly through his brain in an attempt to fully process before Rider reaches him.

Gilgamesh, talking of dreams. Destiny, watching him make his oath. A group of Heroic Spirits that look as if they're meeting again for the first time in decades. This is the beginning, the first day in time-outside-of-time, and he and Rider _cannot possibly have ever met_.

Rider stops in front of him, arms akimbo, and looks him up and down-the banner of dark hair, the red coat hanging to his knees, the goldenrod scarf across his shoulders-and for a moment, Waver is nineteen again, too small and too weak and too petty to be worth even a moment of the great king's regard.

But, "An idiot like you totally fine with me," he remembers, and it teases one corner of his mouth up into a rough grin. He meets his king's eyes, waiting-

-and finds himself face-down in the lapping waves, Rider laughing loudly above him, having slapped him across the back exactly as he always had, and all Waver can think of in that moment is the immeasurability of one man's strength against the world. Sputtering and coughing, the grin broad and aching on his cheeks, he's profoundly grateful for the salt water's excuse for his stinging eyes.

"This one's obviously one of mine!" Rider shouts, to bursts of laughter from the others. "Break out the tents; there are stories to be told, songs to be sung!"

"Wine to be drunk!" someone calls, and Rider laughs louder than anyone as he reaches down and helps Waver to his feet.

"Yours should be interesting, eh?" he asks conspiratorially, leaning in to throw one arm around the mage's shoulders.

Waver looks up at him and grins, reaching up to wrap his right hand over Rider's wrist. What to tell and how; he'll worry about that later. For now, all that matters is this: he's finally caught up.

"It was a long time in the making, my king."

Alexander's eyes shine in anticipation, and together they walk up the strand to join the army, leaving footprints behind them on the shore of Ôkeanos.


	2. Chapter 2 - Rider

.1.

"Desire says to leave you alone but now you're seeing things so he can't stop me. Why do you name all your cities the same thing? Do they all taste alike?"

The child's a pale sprite centered in a rainbow nimbus, yet not the strangest thing he's seen since the river took him ill. He tells her, expansively, about his love for everywhere being equal. She nods solemnly and offers him a fish for company while she goes to check the closet for sameness.

They're such pretty things; it's disappointing when Phillip checks in on him and can't see them.

.2.

The fire roars up in her eyes, and Alexander cannot help but grin as he watches her stride to the fore. She raises her torch high overhead, swings it twice, and looses it; it sails through a window, flames describing a bright wheel in the air, and catches with a muffled burst of sound on the fine curtains within. Others follow in their turn, and the scent of alcohol in the air is overwhelmed by rising smoke, but it is Thaïs who remains the most beautiful, laughing and merry, singing to Dionysus and Athena as the castle at Persepolis burns.

.3.

A princess is dancing. Alexander sits, cup halfway to his lips, mouth foolishly open, arrested.

It's not that she is beautiful, though she is—a flower of youth and tumbling hair, dark and fine as the dusk. And it's not that she is graceful, though she is—a leaping gazelle, a waving flag, all lean limbs and eastern finery.

It's the way she stares and the way she smiles and the burn of her intent, intelligence and admiration and ambition, written in her piercing gaze and the challenging jut of her jawline.

Roxana is dancing.

And Alexander is in love.

.4.

There's blood everywhere. Mostly his own, he supposes.

Peucestas stands over him, golden eyes grim, sacred shield raised protectively. Ahead, Leonnatus defends them both, whip-quick and vicious. Closer than Alexander's two braves, though, is Abreas, arrow-pierced even as Alexander himself, eyes wide and blank, the bolt an ugly protrusion beneath his chin.

The melee opens, admitting a woman, marble-white, ebon-black. She leans over Abreas, tutting, and he rises, or his shade does.

He's too far gone to hear their words, but Alexander, even with darkness closing over his eyes, feels the pride when Abreas looks to his king and hesitates.

.5.

This cannot happen.

Hadn't he been _assured _the diet would help?

Hadn't he been told to take heart?

Hasn't he himself survived such fevers before?

He runs, deaf to everything, mind echoing and pleading with the memory of the runner's desperate message: _it's gotten worse_. _Please come!_

Aren't they mirrors of one another? Surely one will not die before the other.

He pushes into the room. Servants turn, but the man on the bed does not stir; that silence tells him everything. Terror transmutes, becomes desolation, and the hook in his heart drags him to his knees at Hephaestion's deathbed.

.6.

The branches tattooed on the sage's chest are withered and pale, age- and illness-distorted. Racking breaths leave the tree trembling, though Calanus sits calmly, stubbornly upright.

Flame kindles; around the pyre, onlookers gasp as the blaze surges up oil-soaked wood. To Alexander's left, Ptolemy's dark eyes gleam with pride and unshed tears, that he has and is losing so fearless a companion.

Calanus grins and looks to Alexander, gaze sharp and fond, far-seeing. His voice carries through flame, through every festival hurrah. His words are a blade drawn across the king's throat.

" Alexander, we shall meet again in Babylon."

.7.

A man sits in the corner where Eumenes had been working moments ago. The new man—for the king doesn't recognize him—looks much _like_ his secretary. Their pose is similar; they have in common their long, dark hair. While Eumenes wears black, though, the other's robes are red, and his features harsher-drawn.

He should call for Perdiccas, Alexander knows, for such visions suggest Calanus' prophecy is nearing realization, but—the man has stopped writing and is vaguely contemplating the back of his hand. Alexander wonders what he's seeing.

The most annoying thing is feeling he should already know.

* * *

Consider this fic a teaser for a larger story in the works about what happens to Rider, Waver, and the rest of the Hetairoi when Morpheus goes missing and the Dreaming begins to destabilize. (Hint: "Are YOU a bad enough dude to save the Dream King?")


End file.
